The 28 year old who is now married described in vivid and horrifying detail how Allen sexually molested her from age 7. Dylan recalled how her abuse started and how it went on for a while. She then talks about her difficulties growing up with almost no one believing her, a victim, and everyone loving and praising Allen, a molester.
Farrow split from Allen in 1992 when she found out he was having an affair with another daughter, Soon-Yi who she adopted from Korea in 1978. She reported the sexual relationship between Allen and Soon-Yi and also filed charges that Allen had molested their daughter Dylan, then 7 years old. Allen denied the charges and was never prosecuted. Allen went on to marry Soon Yi in 1997.
See Dylan Farrow's open letter after the cut...
(A note from Nicholas Kristof: In 1993,
accusations that Woody Allen had abused his adoptive daughter, Dylan
Farrow, filled the headlines, part of a sensational story about the
celebrity split between Allen and his girlfriend, Mia Farrow. This is a
case that has been written about endlessly, but this is the first time
that Dylan Farrow herself has written about it in public. It’s important
to note that Woody Allen was never prosecuted in this case and has
consistently denied wrongdoing; he deserves the presumption of
innocence. So why publish an account of an old case on my blog? Partly
because the Golden Globe lifetime achievement award to Allen ignited a
debate about the propriety of the award. Partly because the root issue
here isn’t celebrity but sex abuse. And partly because countless people
on all sides have written passionately about these events, but we
haven’t fully heard from the young woman who was at the heart of them. I’ve written a column about this, but it’s time for the world to hear Dylan’s story in her own words.)
Dylan's letter below...
What’s your favorite Woody Allen movie?
Before you answer, you should know: when I was seven years old, Woody
Allen took me by the hand and led me into a dim, closet-like attic on
the second floor of our house. He told me to lay on my stomach and play
with my brother’s electric train set. Then he sexually assaulted me. He
talked to me while he did it, whispering that I was a good girl, that
this was our secret, promising that we’d go to Paris and I’d be a star
in his movies. I remember staring at that toy train, focusing on it as
it traveled in its circle around the attic. To this day, I find it
difficult to look at toy trains.
For as long as I could remember, my father
had been doing things to me that I didn’t like. I didn’t like how often
he would take me away from my mom, siblings and friends to be alone with
him. I didn’t like it when he would stick his thumb in my mouth. I
didn’t like it when I had to get in bed with him under the sheets when
he was in his underwear. I didn’t like it when he would place his head
in my naked lap and breathe in and breathe out. I would hide under beds
or lock myself in the bathroom to avoid these encounters, but he always
found me. These things happened so often, so routinely, so skillfully
hidden from a mother that would have protected me had she known, that I
thought it was normal. I thought this was how fathers doted on their
daughters. But what he did to me in the attic felt different. I couldn’t
keep the secret anymore.
When I asked my mother if her dad did to her what Woody Allen did to me, I honestly did not know the answer. I also didn’t know the firestorm it would trigger. I didn’t know that my father would use his sexual relationship with my sister to cover up the abuse he inflicted on me. I didn’t know that he would accuse my mother of planting the abuse in my head and call her a liar for defending me. I didn’t know that I would be made to recount my story over and over again, to doctor after doctor, pushed to see if I’d admit I was lying as part of a legal battle I couldn’t possibly understand. At one point, my mother sat me down and told me that I wouldn’t be in trouble if I was lying – that I could take it all back. I couldn’t. It was all true. But sexual abuse claims against the powerful stall more easily. There were experts willing to attack my credibility. There were doctors willing to gaslight an abused child.
When I asked my mother if her dad did to her what Woody Allen did to me, I honestly did not know the answer. I also didn’t know the firestorm it would trigger. I didn’t know that my father would use his sexual relationship with my sister to cover up the abuse he inflicted on me. I didn’t know that he would accuse my mother of planting the abuse in my head and call her a liar for defending me. I didn’t know that I would be made to recount my story over and over again, to doctor after doctor, pushed to see if I’d admit I was lying as part of a legal battle I couldn’t possibly understand. At one point, my mother sat me down and told me that I wouldn’t be in trouble if I was lying – that I could take it all back. I couldn’t. It was all true. But sexual abuse claims against the powerful stall more easily. There were experts willing to attack my credibility. There were doctors willing to gaslight an abused child.
After a custody hearing denied my father
visitation rights, my mother declined to pursue criminal charges,
despite findings of probable cause by the State of Connecticut – due to,
in the words of the prosecutor, the fragility of the “child victim.”
Woody Allen was never convicted of any crime. That he got away with what
he did to me haunted me as I grew up. I was stricken with guilt that I
had allowed him to be near other little girls. I was terrified of being
touched by men. I developed an eating disorder. I began cutting myself.
That torment was made worse by Hollywood. All but a precious few (my
heroes) turned a blind eye. Most found it easier to accept the
ambiguity, to say, “who can say what happened,” to pretend that nothing
was wrong. Actors praised him at awards shows. Networks put him on TV.
Critics put him in magazines. Each time I saw my abuser’s face – on a
poster, on a t-shirt, on television – I could only hide my panic until I
found a place to be alone and fall apart.
Last week, Woody Allen was nominated for his
latest Oscar. But this time, I refuse to fall apart. For so long, Woody
Allen’s acceptance silenced me. It felt like a personal rebuke, like the
awards and accolades were a way to tell me to shut up and go away. But
the survivors of sexual abuse who have reached out to me – to support me
and to share their fears of coming forward, of being called a liar, of
being told their memories aren’t their memories – have given me a reason
to not be silent, if only so others know that they don’t have to be
silent either.
Today, I consider myself lucky. I am happily
married. I have the support of my amazing brothers and sisters. I have a
mother who found within herself a well of fortitude that saved us from
the chaos a predator brought into our home.
But others are still scared, vulnerable, and
struggling for the courage to tell the truth. The message that Hollywood
sends matters for them.
What if it had been your child, Cate
Blanchett? Louis CK? Alec Baldwin? What if it had been you, Emma Stone?
Or you, Scarlett Johansson? You knew me when I was a little girl, Diane
Keaton. Have you forgotten me?
Woody Allen is a living testament to the way our society fails the survivors of sexual assault and abuse.
So imagine your seven-year-old daughter being
led into an attic by Woody Allen. Imagine she spends a lifetime
stricken with nausea at the mention of his name. Imagine a world that
celebrates her tormenter.
Are you imagining that? Now, what’s your favorite Woody Allen movie?
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